CANDOER Retirement Group

Preface by the Editor: This four-part serial story is the story of Dick Kalla's life in the Foreign Service. It starts with his first assignment to Copenhagen and ends with a final assignment in Caracas. In between, it covers his assignments to Benghazi, Bonn, Lome, Santo Domingo, Seoul, Brussels, Malta, Geneva, Jakarta, and New Delhi.

Enjoy reading!

It seems to me that each time my family and I moved to another country we were told that the weather was or had been abnormal. "It's much hotter than usual." It's much colder than usual." It's much wetter than usual." "It's much drier than usual." These were all phrases we heard upon arrival at nearly every new assignment. Other times, it was explained to us that we were fortunate to have arrived that year because it had been brutal the year before. Brussels fit into this category. "Boy are you lucky you didn't get here last summer when it rained for 40 days and 40 nights straight," was the refrain we heard over and over. I don't know if it really did rain for 40 days and 40 nights during the summer of 1979 but everyone who was there at that time believed that it did. During our three years in Belgium, we discovered that it did rain a bit; and summers, as well as winters, could have some gray days but it never rained for 40 straight days and nights. I didn't know whether to be disappointed or happy. After all, the last time I can remember hearing about it raining for that number of days and nights, it became a world-changing event involving an ark and animals, etc.

Rainy, gray days aside, Brussels was a wonderful city full of old-world charm and centrally located in Europe. The chancery was situated on a busy main street near central Brussels. A half block away was USEC, the U.S. Representative to the European Economic Commission. At one time there had been an actual communications section at USEC. It was connected to the Embassy by a small pony circuit. Before my arrival, the USEC CPU was closed and a courier service from the Embassy instituted. I believe this happened three times per day during my stay in Brussels. Once in the morning, after lunch, and in the late afternoon (rain or shine), the courier trudged between the two buildings carrying a briefcase full of telegrams and other correspondence. Upon arrival at USEC the material would be slotted in the proper boxes and any outgoing correspondence that had accumulated would be gathered up and brought back to the Embassy for further delivery. For the Brussels communicators, this was a minor nuisance. We had to remember to go to USEC at the designated times each day. I say it was a minor nuisance because it got us out of the office for a while. When the weather was good, it was an enjoyable respite from the otherwise busy workload. When the weather was inclement (sometimes, as we've seen, for forty straight days) it wasn't so great. I also always wondered about the security risk of carrying a briefcase load of classified messages on the streets of Brussels. Surely if the wrong people knew what was happening, there was ample opportunity to snatch it as we walked along unprepared. This never happened to my knowledge. Maybe the bad guys knew how uninteresting most of the classified material we carried was and had better things to do with their time.

The Ambassador had a pink button! It was located on his telephone instrument in his office. The Brussels Telephone Technician had installed the pink button at the Ambassador's insistence. When the Ambassador pressed the pink button he could listen in on, undetected, any conversation on the private line in his daughter's room at the residence. His daughter was a teenager at the time. I don't know who she talked with that would warrant this action or if the Ambassador ever listened, but he had the ability to do so if he wanted. All he had to do was push the pink button.

The Ambassador was a political appointee and a close personal friend of President Ronald Reagan. They spent Christmas together nearly every year. When the Ambassador wanted to make changes to the residence or Embassy or had bi-lateral information concerning the U.S. and Belgium, he sent it directly to the White House, sometimes with a copy to the State Department. This skipping of a link in the chain-of-command didn't endear him to some at State. It was, however, effective. I assume the Belgians rather enjoyed having someone representing the U.S. who had direct contact with the President. The Ambassador went on to London after Belgium where I suspect he represented the U.S. in fine fashion. I don't know if he brought the pink button with him to his next assignment.

Never judge a book by its cover" is an old adage that perfectly described Carl's eating prowess. He was skinny as a rail but could he pack away the chow. In Brussels, when I was there, there were two rotating shifts. One group worked the morning shift and the other the afternoon shift. On a normal evening shift we would work until approximately 2000 (8:00 p.m.) and then sit down together in the break room and have our dinner. Dave, Joe and I brought a normal size meal. Maybe we had a sandwich, a piece of fruit and some snack or dessert item. Carl, however, had a shopping bag full of food, fattening food that we could only marvel at and watch as he devoured it all while eyeing our meager fare. Boy were we envious. Carl had one of those metabolisms that burned brightly. If only I could have bottled it some way I would be a billionaire today. Carl bounced off walls powered by his super-heated metabolism that allowed him to eat everything he wanted and still stay rail-thin.

Brussels is where I purchased the Van from Hell. At first, the brand-new VW bus we bought from a local dealer seemed perfect. Then, inexplicably, it developed a loud but intermittent squeak. I took it back to the dealers several times before they even heard it, which didn't help my credibility. I was even starting to feel that people at the dealership were going out of their way to avoid the foreigner with his phantom noise. Finally, after several trips to the dealer and attempts at pinpointing the cause, a mechanic heard the noise. Unfortunately, he had no idea what was causing the racket, but at least someone else now believed that there was a problem. With the noise verified, the hunt was on. My relationship with the garage changed overnight. No longer did they try to avoid me. They were now eager to solve the enigma of the squeaking car. Each trip became more and more involved. The garage kept removing pieces of the Van from Hell, trying to locate the source of the noise. This included, at one point, driving it around without seats and a gas tank. In the end, it was discovered that a tool or some other extraneous piece was left in a support beam when it was manufactured. It wouldn't, we were told, cause any harm and to remove it would be expensive. It remained in the van for as long as I owned it. Anyone with any sense would have sold the Van from Hell, upon departure from Belgium. Unfortunately, it didn't work out. The market for used cars in Belgium is nearly non-existent. So, unable to sell it, the Van from Hell accompanied us to Malta. At the end of our two-year tour in Valletta we again tried to sell the Van from Hell but there was a national law that said no van could have side or rear windows unless it was registered as a tourist vehicle. This meant that any individual who bought the van would need to weld covers over the windows. A couple of influential and affluent Maltese were interested in buying the Van from Hell, and took the matter all the way to the Congress. Unfortunately, Congress upheld the law. So, a little long in the tooth, the Van from Hell went with us to Geneva. In Geneva, the Van from Hell soon developed another strange symptom. While driving peacefully along, the engine would suddenly stop running. This usually happened when we were on a long trip. The only way to entice the Van from Hell to start was to wait for 30 minutes or more. After 30 minutes it started back up and ran perfectly. Obviously, this was less than satisfactory, so once again we began visiting the Volkswagen garage looking for an answer. After several visits, the garage decided (maybe because they didn't know what else to do) that the Van from Hell needed a complete engine replacement. I decided it needed more than that and the Van from Hell and I parted ways soon thereafter. The Swiss charged several hundred dollars to junk a vehicle but I was able to arrange for it to be shipped (free of charge) to Sri Lanka, where it is probably still haunting some poor Sri Lankan family.

Last, but certainly not least, on my 40th birthday my wife called me at work to inform me that she was pregnant with our son. Describing the roller-coaster ride of emotions that I felt at that time isn't something I want to do here, but suffice it to say that on the one-hand we had never completely given up on the idea of trying for a son to complement our two wonderful daughters. On the other, starting over raising a baby in our forties wasn't something we were sure we were prepared to handle. Nevertheless, the happy event was soon upon us and our son Kevin was born six months prior to our departure from Belgium. Our life hasn't been the same since, but that's another story.

The political wrangling of the two presidential candidates in the 2000 U.S. elections and the closeness of the vote, reminds me of the two years (1983 to 1985) that my family and I spent in Malta where there are two distinct political parties (Nationalist and Labor). The island electorate was split almost exactly in half between the two parties. Each party could count on receiving 50% of the vote. This split made for some very interesting and spirited elections. The contests were always extremely tight with just a couple of votes separating the winner from the loser. The losers always claimed there was vote fraud. The winners always determined they had a solid mandate. Sounds a little familiar doesn't it. Laborites tended to be blue-collar workers (primarily shipyard workers - the largest industry in the country). Nationalists were more often members of the gentry or business owners (small and large). The 2000 U.S. election aside, I doubt that there are any people on earth more attuned to politics and election results than the Maltese. I never met a Maltese in my two years there that didn't quickly turn any conversation around to politics. It didn't matter that their father might have just died or that, as a foreigner, I wasn't able to vote. It was physically impossible for any Maltese to have a conversation without eventually talking politics. Each party was vehemently opposed to the policies of the opposite party. Come to think of it, that's probably why they liked to talk politics with foreigners. They could explain to someone with no pre-conceived political bias why their group was better than those other guys. Whatever the reason, it always led to some spirited discussions and, for better or worse, is the one thing every ex-pat remembers about their time in Malta.

Malta is a small island (95 square miles) where approximately 360,000 people live in numerous small villages. The old city of Valletta is the present-day capital city (or village) of the country. It is a rabbit-warn of small windy streets and old rock buildings surrounded on one side by the sea and on the other by the remnants of an old moat. The city gate and drawbridge are still the primary entrance into the city. Some Government buildings and a few foreign Embassies are still located in Valletta but many have moved into the more modern and affluent areas. The American Embassy is housed in a bank building in downtown Floriana, a city adjacent to Valletta. In area, Malta is smaller than many cities in the U.S. and elsewhere. Basically, it is a small dusty rock located in the Mediterranean Sea. The coastline is primarily rocky with just enough small sandy beaches to attract tourists. During the period we were there, Malta was a haven to British tourists who were attracted by the relatively low prices. This was important because the British Government limited the amount of money they could take out of the U.K. Malta, in those days, was one of the few foreign destinations where British tourists could go and have a good time with a limited amount of money.

There were two of us assigned to the communications section in Malta and enough work for one and a half. This gave me the opportunity to become involved with other mission responsibilities. Since Embassy security had long been neglected, it was made one of my duties. It was thought that I would have time to complete the necessary reports and re-write the post's security plan. This would be an easy enough task for someone with extra time on his or her hands. I liked the idea because it got me out of the office periodically to meet with police officials and perform other security related functions outside the Chancery. In my wildest dreams I didn't expect what would happen next. One day, we received a tip that Libyan terrorists were planning to blow up our Embassy. It was time to put in effect those security plans that I had been developing in my spare time, never dreaming that they would ever be used. All of a sudden our little Embassy was a possible target of terrorism and we were ill prepared. Physically, things couldn't have been worse. As noted above, the chancery was located on the second floor of a bank building. Worse, it was located on a busy thoroughfare with no setback from the street. Finally, the front of the building, including the Ambassador's office, was built over a wide sidewalk giving easy access to anyone who wanted to drive a truck filled with explosives underneath. We were a security nightmare. Suddenly the security function went from something to do during slow periods to a full time, and more, job. I had to find trucks filled with boulders to block the sidewalk. I had to liaison with Maltese police and Government security officials and I had to meet and greet the many visitors that the Department sent to assess the situation. The Regional Security Officer in Rome suddenly discovered that Malta was more than a place he came a couple of times a year for a quiet break. I don't know why the terrorists decided not to carry out their plan. Maybe it was all a bad joke or some crank trying to stir things up. There were, however, numerous indications that it was very real. Probably, all the hustle and bustle and the obvious preparations scared them off. Whatever the reason, the Security function in Malta was never the same again during my time there. I spent the rest of my tour interviewing and hiring full-time guards for a 24-hour presence at the Chancery and the Ambassador's residence. I also spent a lot of time helping to find a Marine House for the Marine detachment that would arrive shortly after my departure. I suppose things have quieted down once again in Malta but I'm sure that Security is no longer an after thought, like it was before there were Libyan terrorists to worry about.

There is nowhere in Malta where you can stand and be more than 17 miles away from the water. Needing something to do on the weekends after the sightseeing possibilities had all been exhausted, my family and another mission family decided to circumnavigate the island on foot. Every Sunday, for nearly one year, we would check our maps and set out for another section of the coast. Upon arrival we would park one vehicle at the ending point and pile into the other to travel to the start of our weekly walk. We would reverse this procedure at the end of our walk. In the beginning, we were able to walk along sidewalks and the going was fairly easy. Unfortunately, much of Malta's coastline consists of rocky cliffs with small sandy bays occasionally interspersed. Our plan was to walk as close to the water as we could. This was our prime directive. When we ran out of sidewalks, we often had to traverse rough terrain, or at least do the best we could to be honest to our prime directive. With three teenagers and a two-year old involved, no one wanted to do anything that was dangerous. Only once did following the prime directive too closely get me in trouble. On this occasion, as always, I was carrying my two-year old son, Kevin, in a backpack. Noticing a wide path that disappeared around a cliff, I set off to see if it was passable. The others, noticing that there was a long drop down the sheer cliff to the sea below, decided they would look for an easier way. I wish I had done the same. I didn't really notice that the path was becoming narrower until it suddenly ended. Actually there was a short break and a nice wide trail that began again on the other side of the break. I just needed to step over the broken section. Not wanting to attempt to turn-around on the narrow trail, I steeled myself and hopped over the break to the wide area. Looking ahead, all seemed fine as far as I could see, and I breathed easier. The trail remained wide around a bend in the distance so, once again, I set out with assurance that I was safely following the prime directive. Striding smartly around the corner I found myself standing on a narrow ledge with the angry sea breaking over a graveyard of rocks seemingly several miles straight down below. I immediately froze and tried to become one with the cliff. The trail ahead was too narrow to go on and, with my son wiggling around in the backpack on my back, it was, I thought, too dangerous to try to turn around and attempt to go back. As I stood there frozen and too scared to move, many thoughts went through my mind, but one thought was paramount. I had to find a way to get my son to safety. My stupidity had brought us to this point and maybe I deserved to plunge to the waiting rocks directly below, but he sure didn't. All of this panicked reflection probably took no more than a minute or two but, to me, it seemed like 10 years. Finally, somehow, I was able to gather one or two of my wits and slowly back up onto a wider part of the trail where I could turn around. Overcome with relief, I quickly retraced my steps, past the break in the trail, and rejoined my fellow hikers on the safe trail. In the dark of the night when I am unable to sleep, I often think of how close I had come on that cliff to losing everything. The thought of being frozen in place and staring down to the waiting rocks and sea below still gives me the shivers and, once again, I realize how lucky I had been. Never again did I follow a trail unless I knew where it ended. I remained true to the prime directive, but I learned to compromise when necessary. It took us about a year, but we finally filled in all the blanks in our map and circumnavigated the entire island. We felt pretty good about our accomplishment and even made a big sign that proclaimed our feat, which we took to the airport when we left Malta for the final time. My pride did take one small hit when a former Maltese Boy Scout told me that his troop had once walked around the island on a long weekend hike, but I was able to rationalize that their route was probably much shorter than ours and less spectacular.

As the seagull flies, Malta is 85 miles from Sicily. The U.S. Military has a base at Sigonella on Sicily with a Commissary and PX and the other normal accoutrements. Material goods were cheap in Malta but limited in quality and variety. Therefore, Embassy folks found it highly desirable to go to Sigonella, whenever possible, to stock up from time to time. There was a ferry between Malta and Sicily and this was the preferred way to go. It took eight hours each way but the sea was usually calm and the ferry comfortable. Then, upon arrival, you could drive to the base and fill up your vehicle with PX and Commissary goodies and take them back home to Malta (hopefully avoiding a big hassle with Maltese customs when the ferry landed). We made this trip three or four times during our stay in Malta. We usually combined our shopping trips with sightseeing excursions to Mt. Etna or some other nearby attraction, so it was almost always a pleasant experience. One time it wasn't. One year, we decided to do our Christmas shopping at the base. It was late November and the smooth Mediterranean lake that we remembered had become an angry sea. The first four hours were in open sea and that part of the trip was a nightmare. The ferry seemed to broach on every wave. It would stand on end and then crash down before heading up the other side of the wave. I have never been seasick in my life but I nearly lost it several times during those first four hours. The crew was kept busy putting down buckets of sand where people had failed in their mad dash for the toilets. After four hours, we arrived in the lee of the island of Sicily and the sea calmed down for the remaining four-hour run to Syracusa where the ferry docked. As always, we stayed the weekend in Sigonella before returning to Malta on the ferry. The shopping had been successful and the car was filled with goodies. The sea was calm on our return trip. The lights of Malta were shining brightly less than a mile ahead when the passengers began making their way down to their vehicles prior to arrival. Suddenly we noticed that the ferry was turning around and heading away from Malta. At first no one seemed too concerned. The ferry was probably just maneuvering prior to entering its berth. When it kept heading out to sea, however, there was a clamoring to see why we were heading back out to sea. After some time, the passengers were informed, via the loudspeaker system, that one of the engines was experiencing difficulty and we would be returning to Syracusa for repairs. I'm not sure about the politics of why this work had to be done in Italy (it was an Italian ferry) or why they couldn't have first dropped off the passengers. We were, after all, nearly at the harbor. But, suffice it to say that we limped all the way back to Sicily. With only one engine, it took much longer than eight hours. Once back on Sicily, we sat aboard the ferry while engine repairs were made. This took more than a day. All the while the ferry company refused to let the passengers use the cabins to sleep in, unless they paid to do so. In addition, we were forced to buy our meals. With plenty of time on my hands I eventually ran into a fellow American tourist on the ferry. As it turned out, he was a lawyer and had a few choice things to say about the treatment we were receiving. He and I eventually made our way to the headquarters of the ferry company where he repeated some of his choicer words and demanded to see a copy of passenger rights. With his law training, he was able to point out the small print that said that the ferry company was responsible for feeding and housing stranded passengers. With the threat of a lawsuit reverberating through the company headquarters, things changed quickly. Meals became free and passengers were assigned cabins. Once repairs were made, we finally returned to Malta, uneventfully.

Hit the ground running! That much-overused cliché (a favorite of many an efficiency report writer) was what greeted me at the end of the summer of 1985 when I arrived in Geneva to start what would be a 4-year assignment. Upon arrival, it was explained to me that President Reagan would be coming to town to meet with Premier Gorbachev in November and there was much to be done before they arrived. So it goes in the Foreign Service. Besides trying to locate suitable housing and getting the kids settled in school, the Reagan/Gorbachev summit would take care of any spare time in those early days in Geneva.

Dave Jacks, who was the first of my three different bosses during my 4 years in Geneva, met my family and me at the airport. On the way to our temporary quarters, Dave explained what the next few months held in store. As the new Communications Center Officer, I would be responsible for the communications requirements of the Secretary of State, who would accompany the President. Dave would handle the needs of the White House Communications Agency (WHCA). WHCA, as most of you know, is in charge of all communications related activities of the President. We stuck with this general plan until the Summit was complete. There was, of course, considerable overlap in our responsibilities but this was a way for both of us to keep demands on our time in perspective.

And there were demands. I've forgotten exactly how many C5A's full of communications gear that the Air Force flew in to support the Summit Meeting but there were several. This did not include the separate flights for security equipment, office material and whatever else was needed to equip and house several hundred government employees coming for the visit. The average American probably envisaged President Reagan and Premier Gorbachev meeting around a table somewhere in Geneva assisted by a few key staff. Very few were aware that a cast of hundreds (maybe thousands) accompanied the President. They surely were not aware of the number of vehicles, including presidential limousines as well as communications vans that roamed through Geneva and the Swiss countryside each day. There was one event in particular that made me aware of what a massive personnel undertaking this event had become. One day, during the middle of the visit, I saw a sign-up sheet for Washington visitors who wanted to travel to the mountains to visit the Matterhorn the next day. There were more than one hundred names already signed up. This was during the middle of the visit! There were other trips to other places planned for other days during the Summit. I didn't really want to know how this many people were able to take time off during a busy visit to go sightseeing, but I remember marveling at the sheer numbers of people that were deemed necessary to accompany the Presidential party for this historic meeting.

Two other incidents helped me to realize the grandeur of this event. The first was the size of the bill that the Embassy received from the Swiss PTT after everyone had gone home. It was more than a million dollars! These were just for telephone related charges. For running lines to all the event sites, for the equipment and manpower they provided, etc., etc. What was the total cost of this event if that bill was just for the telephone charges? I can't even imagine. Was it worth it? That's a matter for the historians to decide. It surely was an integral part of any eventual success of the arms control process between the U.S. and the Soviet Union.

I was also impressed by the President's bed. It had been flown in especially for the event and remained behind in our pouch vault at the conclusion of the Summit. It remained there for several months until we were instructed to send it to another Embassy location for use at a future visit. Imagine being so important that people would fly your bed around for you to use when you traveled. That's power! Sitting here thinking about it, I'm struck with the realization that this was probably a security requirement. Rather than worry about the bad guys putting listening devices in the President's bed, it would be better to provide a fully cleared and inspected bed when the President traveled to foreign lands. I never thought of that before! Of course, that brings up the issue of what would be happening in the President's bed that anyone would want to listen to, but I think I'll leave that alone. Those of us in Geneva who were reminded of the President's bed each time we went in the pouch vault, usually made disparaging remarks to each other about the President's need for his own bed wherever he went. President Reagan probably wasn't even aware of all the special treatment that he received in the name of security. I wish I could apologize for the jokes at his expense when we saw his bed those many years ago. Well, maybe not.

Concurrent with the Reagan/Gorbachev Summit, the Embassy Communications Center was receiving a complete makeover. Geneva had been chosen as a site for a special communications project and was receiving the necessary upgrade in equipment and facilities. This is not the only time in my career that I have had to continue to do the normal work while dust and construction noise billowed all around. Never was it pleasant. For security reasons, communications, unlike other Embassy offices, usually must remain in place while the construction goes on around them. The Seabee team hammered and pounded while we kept the messages flowing. The assigned communicators did truly heroic duty working under these conditions.

When it was complete, it was truly a showpiece. Sure there was the time (luckily while the Seabee's were still there) right after the construction was complete that the new air conditioning pipes burst and water ran down the back stairs in the middle of the night. But, after the water was mopped up and the pipe re-connected, things slowly got back to normal, almost. CPU Geneva now became a regular stop on the tour for officials involved with this project. There were other posts they could have visited but none in Switzerland. So, they all came, some more than once, and, to lend credibility to their trip, they all had to take a tour of the facilities. As the CCO, this responsibility fell to me and, for the first time in my life, I became a tour director. Over the next 4 years I was to give the tour of the new facilities many times. Too many! If pressed, I could probably still recite my spiel word for word, but I won't.

Away from the office, Geneva was a great place to live. The housing was fantastic and Geneva had just about anything you could want, except cheap prices. In the summer, the lake was right there and provided endless swimming, sailing, etc. possibilities. In the winter, the Jura Mountains were practically in our back yard and the skiing was close and good. I can think of few places in the world where the living is better if you have money. Of course, if you are an Embassy employee and are paid in U.S. dollars, then it's difficult to participate fully in the whole Geneva experience. We were given a large cost-of-living allowance but it didn't begin to cover everything. Through it all though, it was worth it. Geneva became one of the few places that I thought I could retire to outside the U.S. and feel comfortable, if money was not an issue. I guess Australia would also fit in this category.

For me, the passion in winter was cross-country skiing. I went as often as I could. Sometimes fellow-communicators Len Kraske and/or Ken Spaulding went with me. But when they were unavailable, I went alone. Maybe it was my Finnish heritage but, whatever the reason, I really enjoyed the solitude and beauty of cross-country skiing. On rare occasions my wife, Pat, would join me. She particularly liked the flat courses where she could set her own pace and enjoy the beauty of nature. One time, however, I talked her into joining me on one of the many trails that criss-crossed the Jura Mountains in France, not far from our home.

The skiing that day was fabulous, at least in the beginning. The trails were fairly flat and I kept the pace to Pat's liking. Finally, regrettably, it was time to return to the car. By that time, we had skied several miles and the car was still some distance away. I suppose that I should also mention that it had started snowing and that the trails that had, in the beginning, been populated with the occasional skier were now empty. I noticed, after a while that Pat's kick and glide was becoming shorter and shorter. More and more she asked me how far it was and, to encourage her, I kept saying the car was just over the next rise. This went on for a while and there was always another rise just beyond. Pat's pace was now slowing even more visibly. We were skiing at a crawl. About this time, she became convinced that we were lost. No amount of assurance on my part could convince her that we were not far from the car. My sense of direction is pretty good but even I was starting to question where we were given the negatives being projected by my wife. Finally, we saw a hill in the near distance that looked familiar to me and I was fairly certain we were close. Pat, by this time, had become disillusioned with my constant assurances that the car was just over the next hill. No amount of coaxing would get her moving again. She was exhausted and convinced we were destined to die in the woods, covered by snow and not to be found until spring. Finally, unable to do anything to change here mind, I skied ahead to check out the lay of the land. To my relief, there was the parking lot and our car just over the hill. Pat, however, would hear nothing of my assurances. She'd heard it all before. Convinced that I was lying, she refused to budge. I remember trying every trick I could think of before she, reluctantly, skied the final few yards to the top of that ridge. Once at the top, gazing down at our car, I've never seen a transformation like the one that came over her as she charged down that hill toward the car. I'm convinced that if a man-eating grizzly bear had come out of the woods into her path she would have run it over without pausing. Pat was "heading for the barn" and nothing and no one was going to get in her way. She's never before or after skied so fast and so well as she did coming down off that hill. Normally cautious on downhill sections, Pat came down that slope like it was completely flat and had her skis off and loaded in the car before I could move. I'm still amazed to this day how she could go from near death to world champion skier in the blink of an eye.

To make the dollars go farther, most Embassy employees, traveled periodically to Germany to shop at the PX and Commissary. The nearest U.S. base was a half-day drive away so this was not something one did on a whim. It took some planning and usually meant you would overnight in Germany at the base of your choice. Most people made it a family outing. Combining the weekend of shopping with whatever else they liked to do in Germany or at the base. Finally, when it was time to return home, the real fun began. Switzerland was not a part of the European Common Market and the border crossings were fully manned. All cars were checked for goods (and "bads" I suppose) and people bringing in more than the approved amount were required to pay duty on those items. Embassy personnel who were not on the Diplomatic List were, theoretically, responsible for paying this duty. Those on the Diplomatic List were entitled to bring in a reasonable amount of items provided they submitted their shopping list to the Foreign Ministry for permission prior to their travel. As you might imagine, this was impossible. Who knew what commissary or PX items would be available let alone what would strike your fancy while shopping. So, like everyone else, those of us on the Diplomatic List took our chances at the border.

I still remember my heart starting to beat faster as the border approached and trying to put a friendly smile and an innocent look on my face. Meanwhile, the back of the van "runneth-over" with the bounty of two hard days shopping. Somehow we always made it through - except once. That was the time I chose to take the country road crossing rather than remain on the Autobahn. What a mistake. Friends had told me this was the easier crossing and, even though I had never had a problem crossing on the Autobahn, I decided to give it a try. The sight of our overloaded van obviously rang bells with the under-worked customs officials on duty that day because, immediately after we told them we had nothing to declare, the inspection and interrogation began. Somehow my explanations about working at the Embassy and being on the Diplomatic List were not getting the desired results and the customs guys were having a great time looking through each one of our newly purchased treasures. I don't know what finally convinced them to let us go without making us pay duty. Maybe it was the large mound of goods they would need to record and decide upon. Maybe the fact that we were "Diplomats" helped. Whatever the reason, we were eventually allowed to resume our trip home with a stern warning never to cross their roadway again - or something like that. This incident didn't stop us from shopping in Germany but it did stop us from using the "easy" border crossing during future trips.

A final note about living in Geneva. Sunday was a quiet day! That meant you weren't supposed to do heavy labor on Sunday. In particular, local ordinances prohibited the running of lawn mowers and other noisy items. Because the stores were also closed on Sunday, Saturday became a busy time. The lawn needed to be mowed. The groceries needed to be purchased. The car had to be washed. The hedge needed trimming. The list went on and on. Saturdays were tough. Sundays were great. When we first moved to Switzerland this was a real annoyance. Later I learned to like it. No matter how big the list of chores became, I always had a built-in excuse on Sunday. Sorry, the law prevents me from pulling those weeds. Sure, we had a ten-foot high fence around our property but you never knew when a nosy neighbor would be lurking, waiting to turn in a transgressor for committing the ultimate sin, working on Sunday. This excuse didn't always prevent me from having to do indoor chores but not because I didn't try to milk the ordinance for all it was worth. I'm convinced the law was created by Swiss men, and I'm equally convinced I know why. Wow, what a country.